


Don't Have The Turpentine to Clean What You Have Soiled

by HerRosesNeverFall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 90's Music, Abusive John Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Coda, Dean Winchester Deserves Better, Dean Winchester Has Internalized Homophobia, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Not Heterosexual, Drinking, Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, F/F, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Marijuana, POV Dean Winchester, Punk Rock, Smoking, Teen Dean Winchester, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerRosesNeverFall/pseuds/HerRosesNeverFall
Summary: Fuck Dad for making Dean feel like a freak. For making him lie about himself, to himself. Dean’s not a freak. Dad is.A coda for 10x09 'The Things We Left Behind'. The story of Dean sneaking into CBGB.
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 88





	Don't Have The Turpentine to Clean What You Have Soiled

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from ['You'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2s7paN4AHpE) by Bad Religion

**_November 20, 1994._ **

**_East Village, New York City, New York._ **

Dean moves through a dimly lit, graffiti-covered venue, thick with a haze of cigarette smoke, body funk, and stale beer. He’s pushing himself against a crowd of gutter punks with Manic Panic dyed mohawks and denim vests and leather jackets with band patches and studs on them. The walls _vibrate_ with screaming, slurred vocals, and guitar feedback. NOFX - a band he’s only heard a couple of times- is playing and Dean _loves_ it.  
This is a far cry from the basement shows he’s snuck out to when John has left him and Sam at a motel for a couple of weeks.

Dean’s fifteen and not a very imposing sight to behold- 5'6 and 120 pounds soaking wet- but he’s holding his own in the mosh pit. Even gives a guy a bloody nose. 

He’s sporting a denim jacket with buttons and homemade patches on it, a Bad Religion T-shirt, and a wallet chain he found at a Goodwill store. A flannel shirt two sizes too big for him is tied around his waist. His jeans have rips in the knees and his chucks are falling apart, which aren’t fashion statements so much as the natural state of his clothing.

Dean shouldn’t be here and he _knows_ it, not just because he’s far too young to even get into the damn place. He used a fake ID to get in. He shouldn’t even be out _period._ Dad’s orders. But screw it. How many chances is he going to get to see where Joey Ramone and Iggy Pop played? 

Dean's a _man_ now and he’s going to do what he wants. He rode the Long Island Rail Road in from Hicksville, Long Island and picked the subway up at Penn Station to East Village all by himself. Alone. 

The whole experience is awesome, in both senses of the word. Cool _and_ terrifying.

Dean’s stumbling out of the mosh pit, nursing his own bloody nose and bruised eye when he bumps into a girl. She’s a blond chick that looks like a cross between Nancy Spungen and Courtney Love, decked out in a short black babydoll dress, fishnets, and white doc martens. She's _older_. _Much older._ Twenty-one. maybe twenty-two.

“Good job in the mosh pit.” She smiles, taking a sip from her beer that is now half on her, half on Dean, and a half on the floor. “But shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Maybe.” Dean smiles. “Wanna join me?”

She laughs.”Is that an offer?”  
  
“I don’t know. You doin' anything later?”

She laughs again, throwing her arm around him. “Want a beer?” 

“Yeah totally.”

“My name’s Luna.”  
  
“Dean.” 

She not _only_ gets Dean a beer, but she brings him back to her table where her two friends are waiting. A girl with a nose ring, bubblegum pink hair, and goth makeup named Jessica, and a Sid Vicious-looking dude with a blue mohawk named Mike.  
  
They laugh and they drink and blow their lungs out singing as the band does a cover of Dead Kennedys 'Holiday in Cambodia'.

Dean is halfway through his second beer when he notices an upside-down cross around Jessica’s neck. 

“Ya know, that’s not _actually_ a sign of Satanism. It’s the symbol for St. Peter who was crucified upside down because he didn’t feel worthy to die like Jesus…or some bullshit that. The pentacle isn’t either. It’s for protection.” Dean says. “Not that it matters. Satan ain’t real anyway.”

“Where did you learn this stuff?” Jessica asks.

Dean just shrugs. “Nowhere.”

Mike pulls out a package of rolling papers and a little plastic baggie with pot inside.“You smoke, kid?” He asks, twisting the joint.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, nodding. “All the time.”  
  
Dean smokes already. _Cigarettes_. He smokes when Sam drives him up a wall or when their food money runs short- it helps to curb _his_ appetite. But this is the first time Dean's _smoked-_ smoked. 

When Mike finishes rolling the joint he takes a couple of hits and passes it to Dean.

Dean puts the joint to his lips and inhales deeply. Instantly, there is pressure in his lungs and he feels they’re on fire. Dean coughs and hacks, smoke pouring from his mouth as he wheezes.

“Take it easy, Cheetch.” Luna laughs.

Dean laughs, thumping his chest with his fist. He takes another smaller hit and passes it over to Luna.

Within a few minutes, Dean’s head begins to feel heavy. The music from the band starts to move slower. _Everything_ moves slower. 

They pass the joint around again and everyone takes another round of hits.

Luna orders Dean a whiskey and Coke. Jack Daniel’s. Two shots. 

Dean downs it, the taste of soda and the hard bite of whiskey flowing down his throat. In a few minutes, Dean begins to feel warm and happy. Calm.

Soon enough, Dean finds himself gazing at Mike. Staring at him. There’s pressure building in the base of his spine. _Down there_. 

“Ya know Mikey...has anyone ever told you that your Mohawk goes great with your eyes? They’re so blue...like the ocean. Or the sky. I could get lost in ‘em.” Dean is leaning over the table, staring at Mike’s eyes intently.  
  
Luna huffs sarcastically. “Cheating on me are you?” She smirks.

Mike chuckles blowing smoke through his cigarette. “Thanks,” he says flirtatiously. "You wanna call me like...three years? I’m a little too old for you right now, dude.”

Dean blinks, pulling himself away. “Shit dude!... I uh...didn’t mean it _that_ way! I mean I’m not a faggot or anything.”

Dean sinks back to his seat. His stomach twisting. There’s a pain in his chest.  
  
It’s a word Dean has heard his Dad throw mindlessly around with disgust and anger more times than Dean can count. Never at _him,_ but that doesn’t matter. Dad doesn’t have to because it has the same effect.

There’s silence at the table.

“I’m sorry man." Dean apologizes. "I didn’t mean-”  
  
“Does your old man call you that?” Mike’s voice is serious.  
  
Dean pauses. “He...doesn’t know. He _can’t_ know.”  
  
This is the first time Dean is honest with himself. About his feelings.  
  
“Well fuck him. If he can’t accept you for who you are fuck him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Luna adds. “And If you ever need somewhere to crash we have a place in St. Mark’s Plaza.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean glares. “Fuck him.”

Fuck Dad for making Dean feel like a freak. For making him lie about himself, _to_ himself. Dean’s not a freak. Dad is. 

Dean’s stomach _stays_ twisted. It becomes a _different kind_ of twisted and soon his head starts to spin. He’s numb and woozy and slurring his words. 

Dean feels like he’s going to puke his guts out until the end of time…and then he does. 

He stumbles his way out of the booth and into a corner. His body half slumped against a wall. He’s retching and retching. He feels like he's _dying_ and maybe he is. 

Dean’s stumbling his way back to the booth, his head throbbing and his mouth tasting of regurgitated Coke and whiskey and beer, when he hears _him._

_"Dean Winchester!”_

If the room goes quiet or if it’s Dean's mind blanking, Dean can’t be sure. All he knows is that the music and the laughing stops and the only thing he can hear is his own personal gunnery sergeant, John Winchester.

John finds him easily. Dean almost _lets_ himself get caught because it’s better that way. 

John grabs him roughly by the arm and drags him out of the building. When they get to the street, John takes him by the shoulders and shakes him. Rage and vitriol come spewing from his mouth.

“The fuck are you doing boy? I fucking told you not to leave the motel! Sam’s alone by himself right now. You irresponsible dumb ass! You could have put the family at risk! Did you even bother to _check_ any of them?!”  
  
“Dad I-” comes from Dean’s mouth.

John’s fist balls itself. Dean finches, but John just yells louder.

“You smell like godman reefer! Did you take _drugs_ from them? Are you fucking stupid?! I fucking raised you better than that! You should goddamn know better! The fuck is wrong with you?!”

There’s panic in John’s voice too, but it’s the _wrong_ kind of panic. Not the panic of a father for his child, but the panic of a field lieutenant for his private. For his mud cruncher. His soldier. His _grunt_. 

There’s not a _single word_ from John’s mouth about Dean’s bruised eye or the fact that he clearly just puked his guts out. Even the fact that Dean took the subway by himself at night. 

“Never do anything like this again. Ever. Do you understand me?”  
  
“Yes, Dad-Sir.”  
  
John doesn’t say anything. He starts walking down the sidewalk as he pulls out a zippo lighter and a pack of red Winston cigarettes. Lighting it. “March. Now.” He barks, smoke flowing from his mouth. 

Dean follows behind him, hands in the pockets of jeans and eyes downcast.  
  
John doesn’t say anything as they make it into the subway. He just sits in his seat, tapping his foot on the floor of the subway car and chain-smoking.

Dean doesn’t say anything either.


End file.
